Heartsong Read online

  Heartsong

  By

  Melinda Cross

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  First published in Great Britain 1991

  by Mills & Boon Limited

  © Melinda Cross 1991

  Australian copyright 1991

  Philippine copyright 1991

  This edition 1991

  ISBN 0 263 77240 3

  CHAPTER ONE

  Madeline sat in the deep shadows towards the back of the great auditorium, her chin lifted slightly, her eyes closed. A pale, almost white curve of hair stirred against her chin as she breathed, but save for that, and the barely perceptible movement of her fingers in her lap, she was perfectly motionless.

  Her complexion was every bit as pale as her hair, a phenomenon that prompted disbelieving double-takes whenever she left her Manhattan apartment. Normally this unkind attention of strangers made it far more pleasant to stay home, but today was special; today she hadn't even minded the rude stares of people on the street; had hardly noticed them, in fact.

  At the moment there was a serenity to her features that seemed out of place in the concert hall, where almost every other face was tight with stress. Madeline looked around at the other contestants scattered among the hundreds of empty seats. She guessed that most were concert pianists, out of their element in a competition where they would not be allowed to play classical music. She'd overheard a few of them complaining in the seats nearby.

  'What the hell does a popular composer like Elias Shepherd want with a classical pianist anyway?' one young man had grumbled.

  'Who cares?' his companion had answered. 'As long as he's got the money to hand out prizes like this, I'll play anything he wants to hear. The trouble is, I'm not sure I can play his kind of music.'

  Madeline could see the nearly palpable tension in their faces—could almost smell it beneath the covering fragrances of their colognes—and in a very distant, almost absent way she felt sorry for them all. Theirs was an uncertainty that came from the desperate need to please others, and Madeline had long since given up trying to do that. She wasn't here for anyone's approval; she was here for the prize money, period. Even the amount promised to the tenth-place finalist seemed like a fortune; the possibility of placing higher had never even occurred to her. She wasn't a performer, after all, only a New York City piano teacher trying to make ends meet, and optimism was a condition she had shed with her childhood.

  The memories of that childhood had been shelved long ago, much as old, useless papers were crowded into a box and jammed to the back of a cupboard. But occasionally, at times like these when she was forced to idleness, those memories came creeping to the forefront of her thoughts, like a stain in the carpet that reappeared time and again, no matter how thoroughly it was scrubbed away.

  Illegitimate. The word stood out in her mind, more like a comment on her existence itself than on the circumstances of her birth. Father unknown, mother a desperate teenager barely out of childhood herself—Madeline had entered the world unwanted and unexpected, shattering young lives even before she took her first breath.

  Years later she learned that the adoption service had given her yet another label, and the new one was even worse: 'difficult to place'. She never knew what had earned her that title, but suspected that, even as a baby, her odd, colourless appearance had been a deterrent to young couples who dreamed of rosy-cheeked, roly-poly babies with bright blue eyes and rosebud mouths.

  Whatever the reason, her childhood had been peppered with the memories of a succession of foster homes—good places, for the most part, and with good, decent people—but they'd slipped in and out of her life like sand running through her fingers. Madeline the child had learned early that no bond was permanent; no affection, however sincere, was lasting; and Madeline the young woman had no reason to believe otherwise. The only ongoing relationship she had ever experienced was with an inanimate object—the piano—and, although most would have considered that a tragic admission of an empty life, Madeline had never had more than that, and so it was enough.

  Her first foster mother had propped her on a piano bench when she was still a toddler, and had been promptly rewarded with an awestruck, strangely pathetic smile from her solemn little charge. The white things that had looked to a child like monstrous teeth made wondrous, magical sounds, and Madeline had fallen in love.

  The circumstances of her life had allowed for only a few formal lessons, but those had been enough. Armed with the most basic instruction, Madeline had taught herself to play the masters—Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, Mozart—and now, at twenty-five, she was skilled enough to make a tentative living teaching other children what she had had to learn on her own. The irony of that pleased her sense of order, and she was basically content—or at least she had been, until a couple of years ago. That was when she had started to play the music of Elias Shepherd, and, almost instantly, she had fallen in love for the second time in her life.

  Elias Shepherd. The mere thought of his name brought her sharply aware, and she opened large grey eyes that called to mind nothing so much as an arctic wilderness. She glanced towards the brightly lit stage far in front of her, and saw that a worker was opening the concert grand, adjusting the music stand, testing the microphone at the podium at stage right.

  It would begin soon. The first Annual Elias Shepherd Piano Competition would start any minute, and for this one afternoon, at least, the auditorium would ring with his music.

  Her music, she corrected herself, because that was the way she had come to think of his recent work, so sharply different from the light show tunes, the movie scores and the popular music that had made him famous. Suddenly, two years ago, the nature of his music had changed, become darker somehow. She felt the echo of her own despair in his new haunting, poignant melodies; heard the thrum of her own loneliness in the pounding of the bass; it was almost as if he spoke for her through his music; almost as if she spoke for him when she played it. Unfortunately, the world didn't agree with her. The critics panned his new work unmercifully, the movie and television producers had stopped hiring him to create their musical scores, and the audiences no longer flocked to his concerts.

  'Jonathan Parks?' The call came from the stage, and the house lights dimmed even further as a contestant rose from his seat in the middle of the auditorium and walked stiffly down the aisle.

  Madeline squirmed a little in her seat and grabbed the armrests, her features composed, but her eyes alight with anticipation.

  Jonathan Parks was a tall, thin-faced man with longish blond hair and sharp features—the classic picture of the aspiring concert pianist as he settled at the piano, his head thrown back, his long fingers poised over the keys.

  Madeline closed her eyes at the first chord, prepared to be transported by the desolate beauty of one of Shepherd's compositions, but after a few bars her eyes opened and she frowned. As skilled as he obviously was, Parks was playing the piece he'd chosen all wrong. He was muddling the timing, inserting cloying sentimentality that simply didn't belong in the crisp, brutally simple phrasing.

  Eventually Parks finished, was followed by another competitor, then another, and another, and soon Madeline ceased to hear the music coming from the stage and only heard the music in her head, the way she would have played it.

  Finally, hours la
ter, her own call came. 'Madeline Chambers?' The acoustic properties of the concert hall absorbed her name and flattened it.

  'I'm here.' She rose slowly, stiff from sitting so long. She was almost the very last contestant, and noticed as she approached the stage that the auditorium was nearly empty.

  'Are you ready, Miss Chambers?' came a voice from beyond the glare of footlights as soon as she was settled at the piano. It was a gentle, feminine voice, chosen to soothe the frazzled nerves of stressed competitors.

  'Yes.' Madeline nodded, smiling almost reverently at the pristine keyboard before her, so unlike the chipped, yellowing keys of her own ancient grand at home.

  This is for you, Mr Shepherd, she thought silently. Whether you know it or not, this is the way your music should sound.

  And then her fingers touched the keys in a loving caress, lifted to position, and the soul of a man she had never met came to life beneath her hands.

  In tenth row centre, a man's face stilled suddenly, and deep green eyes focused on the stage.

  Two hours later Madeline was back in her tiny, one-bedroom apartment, happily trading her low heels and black dress for slippers and a fuzzy white robe. She scrubbed the make-up from her face, then stood before the mirror in her bedroom, brushing her hair until it fluffed in a pale, crackling halo around her shoulders.

  She paused in mid-stroke, her eyes narrowed critically at the dark, lush circle of lashes that surrounded what looked like icy grey stones. It wasn't bad enough that her hair and eyes and complexion were all so light that they sometimes seemed transparent; added to that were incongruously dark lashes that looked like somebody else's body parts, slapped on her by mistake at the last minute. If she'd been at all concerned with her physical appearance, she could have faulted herself endlessly—aside from the regrettable lack of colouring, her mouth was too wide, her lips too full, her body too tall and slender— but the eyelashes were easily the most offensive feature she had, simply because they didn't match the rest of her.

  She sighed and turned away from the mirror, relieved to be shuttered once again in her apartment, away from the stares of strangers.

  She was halfway through the jumble of living-room furniture on her way to the kitchen when a hard knock sounded at her door, making her frown.

  She tightened the belt on her robe, walked to the door, cracked it reluctantly and peeked around the edge.

  'Congratulations.'

  Madeline's eyes lifted slowly upward until they focused on the shadowed features of a man she'd never seen before. 'I beg your pardon?' she said, squinting into the dim light of the hallway.

  'I said congratulations. This belongs to you.'

  He was holding a rectangle of white towards her, but she barely noticed. A tip of his head had brought his eyes into the light, and Madeline stared at them, fascinated. They were the deep, luminescent green one would expect to find in a spring garden, but never in anyone's eyes.

  He tolerated her silent stare for a moment, apparently amused by it, then inclined his head slightly. 'There's a cheque for a great deal of money in this envelope, Miss Chambers.'

  Incredible eyes or not, a sales pitch was still a sales pitch. Madeline sighed and arched one light brow. 'Really? Well, that's a very novel opening line, but I'm not interested in buying anything, thank you.'

  He chuckled just as she moved to close the door. 'It's the prize money for the piano competition, Miss Chambers. You won.'

  Her breathing stopped, and her eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'That's not possible. I was told we'd be notified by mail.'

  'Everyone else will be notified by mail. The winner should get a special delivery, don't you think?'

  The winner. Madeline felt herself sag a little against the door as she tried to absorb the news, tried to remember just how much money had been promised for first place. 'I won?' she whispered, hating the uncertain quaver in her voice, but unable to control it just this once. 'Are you sure?'

  'Yes. I'm absolutely sure.'

  She nodded slowly, her thoughts numb. She had had such modest dreams, never entertaining the notion that Elias Shepherd would select her as the winner, let alone send someone over with the prize money that very night.

  Someone you're letting stand out of the draughty hallway, she realised suddenly, and jerked the door wide. 'Please, come in,' she said, gesturing towards a cluster of couch and chairs jammed into one corner of the living-room, dwarfed by the ancient baby grand piano she had saved for years to buy. 'Sit down, if you like. I was just about to make some Irish coffee…'

  The words caught in her throat when he turned to face her and she saw him in full light for the first time. Instantly, even though she had never met him, never seen his photograph, she knew he was Elias Shepherd. Whatever it was that pulled at her from his music was also there in his face, and the immediate sense of recognition stunned her. She'd been in love with the intellect and the spirit that created Elias Shepherd's music for almost two years, but she had never really considered that that spirit would be visible on a man's face.

  'You're Elias Shepherd,' she murmured, afraid to move, afraid even to blink, for fear the vision would dissolve.

  He stared right back at her for what seemed like a long time, then nodded.

  Unconsciously she straightened, and, absurd as it was, even in housecoat and slippers there was an almost regal air about her, as if her body knew instinctively that this was the only proper way to stand before this particular man.

  I know you, she thought numbly. I've known you for a long time.

  He looked every bit as dark and haunted as his music, with black brows jetting over those startling green eyes and a grimly set mouth slashed across a square jaw. But there was something else beneath all the sombre intensity—something clean and bright and hard that made her think of the pinwheeling brilliance of sunlight on the ocean.

  It startled her when he spoke, and she wondered how long she had been standing there, staring at him in silence. 'The coffee sounds wonderful. Thank you.'

  'You're welcome,' she replied tonelessly, but she remained motionless, unable to tear her eyes away. Finally she forced herself to turn and retreat towards the kitchen.

  Irish coffee was easy—she'd made it a hundred times before in her life—but tonight the process seemed endlessly complicated; very nearly beyond her capabilities.

  When she returned to the living-room she found him sitting stiffly on the couch, watching her approach with a kind of mystified wariness. Their fingers touched briefly as he took the mug from her hand, and Madeline sank into the chair that faced the couch, confused by the heat his touch had generated.

  They both sipped from their mugs, then he said, 'Your performance today moved me.'

  Her head jerked up at the dark, rolling sound of his voice. She avoided his eyes, concentrating instead on the way his black hair swept backwards over his ears and curled at the collar of his shirt. It was a white shirt, she noticed for the first time; unbuttoned at the neck as if he'd just jerked off a tie and tossed it aside.

  'You've never competed before, have you?'

  'No.' She started shaking her head, then had to remind herself to stop. 'Was it so obvious?'

  'Certainly not.' His mouth moved as if it wanted to smile. 'It's just that I attend almost every competition. I would have remembered a pianist like you.'

  Madeline took another drink and felt the whiskey warm her throat. 'I'm not a pianist at all, really. Just a piano teacher.'

  This time he did smile, briefly. 'And Shakespeare was just a writer.'

  Her eyes barely had time to widen at the outrageous comparison before he shocked her again.

  'I'd like to hire you, Miss Chambers. I want you to work with me full-time on a very important project; playing my music; maybe recording it, eventually.'

  Her hesitation was only as long as a heartbeat. 'All right.'

  The mug stopped halfway to his mouth. 'All right?' he repeated, the green eyes seeming to darken as she watched. 'That's al
l there is to it?'

  Madeline frowned uncertainly as her tongue darted to moisten her lower lip, wondering why her reply had surprised him.

  'Don't you want to know about the salary? The working conditions? Anything?'

  She shook her head mindlessly. 'You're Elias Shepherd,' she told him for the second time that evening, as if that explained everything.

  He regarded her quietly for a moment. 'What do you know about me?'

  'Everything,' she whispered, then frowned, realising how foolish that sounded. 'Nothing,' she added, confused.

  'So which is it?'

  She looked down into her mug, pale brows furrowed, lips pressed together in consternation. What did she know about Elias Shepherd? She was barely familiar with the music that had made him famous: the show tunes, the popular songs, the movie scores he'd written over the past ten years—none of that had touched her. 'I just know the music you've written over the past two years. That's all.'

  'That's everything,' he said quietly, and she felt something deep and profound click into place at the very centre of her being.

  'All right, then,' she heard him say after a moment. 'These are the ground rules. We'll work at Rosewood, my place in the country. We won't be disturbed there.' A smile tried to find the corners of her mouth. 'You'll have to leave your home, give up your students, your friends, your family, your social life—your life itself, really—for as long as the job lasts.'

  She nodded silently, still looking down into her mug, wondering how she was going to contain all this joy; how she was going to remain sitting here affecting calm when she wanted to leap and shout and—

  'The hours will be terrible, I'm impatient and irritable and impossible to work with…' Madeline risked a glance upwards at his harsh tone. 'As a matter of fact, the only decent thing about this job will be the salary. That, I can promise you, will be excellent.'

  Madeline focused on a jagged crack in the plaster wall behind him, smiling a little because he thought things like hours and conditions and salary were important. How could she tell him? How could she explain that his music had been the single spot of brightness in an otherwise drab existence; that, in some mystical way she couldn't articulate, she had belonged to him since she'd started playing his music? Leaving her life to follow him now was just the physical completion of a spiritual commitment she'd made a long time ago.